Daisies for Doubt
by LadyLoserFace
Summary: It's a story we've all heard: Boy goes to bar. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy sleeps with girl. Girl gets pregnant. Boy freaks out. So what's different about this story? Well... when the boy is Sherlock Holmes, life is NEVER going to be normal. Sherlock/OC


John looks up at the ringing of Sherlock's mobile. This is call number three in just as many minutes, and, as such, is getting unbearably irritating.

"Gonna get that?" he asks, and before Sherlock's answer floats out of the kitchen where he's sitting at the microscope (go figure), John knows what it is.

"Busy."

The ringing stops and John shoots the phone a glare so hard he's surprised it doesn't shake (most people do if they're at the receiving end of a glare like that from this particular retired soldier) and flips his newspaper back up. He's exactly one sentence and three words into the review of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ at the Globe Theater when it rings a fourth time and John does something he'd told himself a million times he would never, I repeat 'never, I-am-not-your-secretary' do. He answers Sherlock's phone.

"Hello?" he answers, and there's a pause long enough for John to consider hanging up. Just as he's pulling the phone away from his ear, getting ready to mutter about _bloody prank callers, seriously, find something better to do_ he hears a quick inhale.

"Hi, I'm trying to reach Sherlock Holmes?"

Oh. It's a woman. An _American_ woman.

"This is his phone," John answers, suddenly curious. Why in the world would a woman call Sherlock Holmes? He'd say it was for a case (even in that one sentence she sounded completely distressed) but Sherlock's mobile number wasn't on the website anymore.

"Oh. Is there any chance I can speak to him? It's, um… important," the woman says, and he can practically hear her biting her lip.

"He's, uh," John glances into the kitchen, where Sherlock's face is practically glued to his microscope and there's absolutely no way he would be able to convince Sherlock that this wasn't _boring_ "indisposed. Can I take a message?"

There's another long pause and this time, because John's hearing has gotten _that good_, he can almost hear her thinking about it.

"Is this Dr. John Watson? The one with the blog?" she asks suddenly. When most women ask that, they get that squealing-dreamy tone, yet this woman's was different. Almost as if she was implying _because if you are I can trust you_.

"Yeah,"

The mystery woman sighs and he hears some shuffling in the background.

"Okay. This _cannot_ go on your blog. Understand?"

"It won't. I promise."

An audible sigh, followed by an equally audible inhale.

"Tell Sherlock this is Kennedy and that I'm pregnant."

* * *

Perhaps you, as the reader, would like some background. Assuming you know Sherlock, and assuming you've been able to pick up on his habits over a rather lengthy amount of time, you know that Sherlock seems to think himself asexual. It's not that his body does not respond to the anatomy of a young, beautiful female (and even a few young _male_ anatomies), because it most certainly has the ability. It's that, since the age of eighteen, Sherlock has not found a need for such responses, and therefore has no desire to act on them. Ever.

At least until the day he walks into the Diogenes Club and damn near gives Mycroft a heart attack.

Oh, stop it. He doesn't respond to _Mycroft_. Back to the story.

_After Mycroft pours himself a rather large portion of scotch and sinks into an overstuffed armchair, Sherlock begins explaining. And explaining. And when he's done explaining he explains some more. By the time he finishes telling Mycroft (who's polished off two more glasses of the amber liquid) exactly where he was the past two years, the brothers simply stare at each other. The minutes pass, then Mycroft starts talking._

_He talks about how everyone thought Sherlock was a fake (expected). He talks about how he had to clean up after Sherlock (again, expected). He talks about how John was in absolute __**pieces**__ when Sherlock 'died' (undesirable, but expected). He talks about Sherlock's funeral (more people than expected showed up). He talks about the newspapers (bloody vultures) and the bloggers (most had suspected Sherlock was still alive and were __**obviously**__ correct). He talks about mummy, who's health has been declining since the moment she found out about her precious baby boy's death. Sherlock just listens; no snide comments, no sarcastic questions, no insults for Mycroft, possibly making this conversation the most peaceful one they've ever had._

_Then, as Sherlock is leaving, Mycroft says something that makes him pause with his hand on the doorknob._

"_You have something most people never get, brother. You have a second chance. Perhaps you should make this one really __**count**__."_

_He chews these words over as he flags down a cab. He breaks them down as the driver makes his way back to 221B. He swallows them as he climbs the stairs. And when he sees John, who has known for an additional two days that he is alive, Sherlock digests the words and makes a decision._

"_John, I wish to engage in intercourse."_

* * *

_John had just sat down to a nice hot cuppa when Sherlock bounded in. He stared around the flat for a moment, and just as John took a sip of his steaming tea, Sherlock announced, rather loudly, that he wished to have sex.' Intercourse' was the term he used._

_John sputtered, choked, and swore before rising and running into the kitchen. He blew his nose into a hand towel, __**oh good, no blood**__, and leaned over the sink, processing Sherlock's words. _

"_You want to __**what**__?" John asked, his voice ragged and his nose burning. _

_He could hear Sherlock shuffling around behind him and knew the lanky detective was shrugging off his coat and pulling his scarf from around his long neck._

"_You heard me, John."_

_That's what he was afraid of. John turns, one hand still grasping the edge of the sink as his nose continued to burn. _

"_Sherlock, you know I'm not gay. I don't understand why everyone thinks I am but you of all people –"_

_John stops when Sherlock looks at him, thoroughly confused. "Why would __**your**__ sexuality matter if __**I**__ wished to have inter – oh," he starts, then stops with a hint of a smirk. "With a woman, John. I want to engage in intercourse with a __**woman**__."_

_**Whew**__._

"_Oh," then, at normal volume, "wait, why?"_

_Sherlock doesn't answer, but turns and takes long, determined strides into his bedroom. By the time John has blown his nose again, __**damn there's a little blood**__, Sherlock, is rummaging around in his wardrobe. _

"_So, why are you so keen to get off with a woman now?" John asks, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. _

"_Because I've never done it," says Sherlock, then corrects himself. "Well, I __**have**__ 'gotten off' with someone, but not in the crude way you suggest." Sherlock tosses down a white shirt and picks up a navy blue. "It was at uni. She was twenty, I was eighteen, and she performed manual stimulation. 'Twasn't what I would call memorable, and it probably wouldn't still be a memory if I'd had any others of the like."_

_He spends a few seconds considering the navy blue and purple against the jacket he was wearing and John sniffled, then swore under his breath when it felt as though someone were skinning the inside of his nose._

_When he looks back up, Sherlock has replaced both shirts with a light blue one and a black one. _

"_And why do you feel the need to do it now? You never have before. You always told me you were asexual."_

_Still pondering the fabrics in the mirror, Sherlock takes no time answering him. "Because, John, I have been given a second chance. A second chance to experience things that I did not previously experience. Now help me pick a shirt."_

_John stared at Sherlock, a sudden weight settling in his chest. Sherlock, a man who wouldn't even get dressed for Buckingham palace because he didn't find it necessary, a man who refused to leave the flat for any case less than a 7 on his exciting-cases scale, wanted to experience the world like normal people. It was the same thought John had after he woke up in the first hospital back in Germany when he'd been shot. He swore to use this second chance for good, to not waste the time he had on this earth, and a hundred other things, he supposes, every person who's gone through a near-death experience should do._

"_John. I need your opinion. Which shirt should I wear?" Sherlock asks. "Which one will make me look most attractive?"_

_John snorts. "Sherlock, you're always attractive."_

_**Okay, maybe I'm a little gay.**_

"_Go with the light blue and a black suit. The shirt'll bring out your eyes."_

_**Only a little.**_

* * *

_The bar is horribly noisy when Sherlock walks in. There's a sign in the window letting passers-by know that tonight a band called Hannah and the Monkeys will be playing at 9:30. Sherlock glances at his watch and sees that it's only 8:45, so he decides to go have a pint first. As he makes his way across the crowded room to the bar, he keeps an eye out for anyone interesting. _

_A blonde sitting with a group of friends catches his eye from a table near the door._

_**Married. Serial adulterer. Mother of two… no, three. Trying to relive her uni days judging by the make-up and outfit.**_

_No. _

_A redhead standing with two men, a glass of wine in her hand smiles broadly in his direction. He lets his lips turn up at the corners briefly, but then a woman pushes around him and runs to her and they kiss. No deduction needed. Continuing to glance around, Sherlock makes his way up to the bar, finds an empty stool, and orders a pint._

_He's only taken a sip when someone accidentally knocks into his shoulder. "Sorry!" she says, and when Sherlock turns his head he thinks she could be a definite possibility. Chocolate brown eyes, and equally dark brown hair that has a red tinge to it. Sherlock doesn't really even mind that it's dyed. There are freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and Sherlock notes that she even has a defined one in the same spot over her left eyebrow that he does._

"_Don't worry about it," he replies softly, and she smiles before turning to the bartender (she calls him Mike, so she must be a regular) and ordering two pints. When Mike turns away to get them, Sherlock decides to make his move. When he looks at her, though, she's already looking at him._

"_You're Sherlock Holmes," she says, then winces. "You know that."_

_Sherlock bites back a sarcastic comment and forces a grin. "That I do," he answers. She looks him over for a moment, and he can tell the way her eyebrows are coming together and her chin bunches up a little that she wants to say something, but before she can, two pints are set at her elbow. She thanks Mike and hands him a bill. Just as she's turning away and Sherlock is realizing he's probably lost his chance, she looks at him._

"_I didn't believe the papers," she says softly, and he can tell she means it. "I knew Moriarty was real."_

_He watches her weave her way through the crowd until she disappears, and realizes he's been holding his breath. As he turns back to the bar and takes a swig of ale, he realizes that there's a funny feeling in his chest that started when he first laid eyes on the mystery brunette. __**Curious**__._

_He decides to find her again._

* * *

_**Ten Days Later**_

"_Hey there, Hannah Banana!"_

_Kennedy Bishop tosses her bag into the booth before sliding in across from her best friend. Hannah smiles widely. "Hey, buttmunch. What took you so long?" she teases, waving to Mike. Kennedy rolls her eyes as she pulls off her scarf. "There was some maintenance issue on the tube. We were stopped for like fifteen minutes," she grumbles. She leaves out the part about her being scared shitless due to a severe case of claustrophobia._

"_Dude, you were having a heart attack, weren't you?" _

_Okay, maybe she didn't __**need**__ to say it. Kennedy grins and takes the pint of beer being handed to her and she takes a long pull from it. It had been a long day. Trying to get a role on stage at the West End is like trying to convince the Pope that God is a woman._

"_So," Hannah says nonchalantly. "Did you see the paper this morning?"_

_Kennedy had, so she glares. The front page had been covered by an article about the returned "Boffin Holmes of Baker Street" and an accompanying photo. When Kennedy saw it she knew she would regret telling Hannah that she'd seen him when she was getting them a pint before Hannah had to go on stage._

_To be honest, Kennedy thought she was crazy when she saw him. At first she thought it couldn't possibly be him; after all, she'd only seen crappy newspaper photos and his suicide was very public. But at the same time, she and most of her other friends three years ago didn't buy that Sherlock Holmes had made up Moriarty and had spent years committing crimes just to frame others for them so he could get attention. And Kennedy definitely didn't believe he would kill the "fake" Moriarty and then jump off a roof. _

_But she did believe that he was dead, so at first she didn't believe that it was really him. Then he'd looked at her like he was dissecting her with his eyes and she'd known. She was shocked at first, and she hoped she'd been able to hide it. _

_Kennedy's brought out of her thoughts by a napkin hitting her face. She glares at Hannah, but Hannah's not paying any attention. Instead, she's staring past Kennedy's shoulder at the door, and when Kennedy turns and follows her gaze, her breath catches in her throat. Standing there, looking absolutely __**edible**__, is Sherlock Holmes. His eyes lock with hers almost immediately, and she can tell nothing good will come from tonight._

* * *

This was all Sherlock's idea. She has to remind herself of that every few seconds. She shifts, huffing at the hard stool she's perched on.

Actually, Hannah said she was crazy for agreeing to this, and that Sherlock was an ass for suggesting it. Kennedy understood, though. Considering the insane women these day who will fake pregnancy for money, control and God knows what else, she could see why Sherlock would want her to have a blood test done. She did not, however, understand why she had to be in the lab at the morgue to have it done. She'd been perfectly content to go to her own physician to have the tests done, but Sherlock had insisted. He wanted to do the test _himself_.

Kennedy hopes that their child isn't as much of a control freak.

The door to the lab opens, but it's just Molly with a cup of tea, just as Kennedy asked for. The nervous young woman comes over and hands it to Kennedy, smiling awkwardly up at her.

"So, why's Sherlock asked you to come to the lab?" Molly asks, and Kennedy can see from the look in her eyes she's just as jealous as she is curious. Kennedy's trying desperately to come up with a good enough lie to sound like truth that the door banging open a second time makes her jump. She curses and stands when some of the hot tea splashes out onto her thigh.

"A case," Sherlock says simply, tugging off his scarf and coat before tossing them onto the coatrack by the door. John trails in after him. Sherlock stops when he's standing next to Kennedy. She's mildly surprised when he doesn't greet her.

"That'll be all, Molly," he says instead, and doesn't even look around to watch the dejected doctor leave. She shoots one more suspicious glance at Kennedy as the door is closing behind her. John catches Kennedy's eye and smiles at her briefly before reaching for a syringe.

"I figured I should do this bit," he says, and glances at Sherlock. Kennedy smiles softly, knowing he's only half joking.

"Yeah, look what happened the last time Sherlock Holmes stuck something in me," she blurts out before she can stop herself. Then she blushes deeply, absolutely mortified. John stares at her for a moment before bursting into laughter.

"God, I never thought I'd hear a dirty joke about _Sherlock_," he manages, giggling. Kennedy laughs, calming down a bit as John ties a tourniquet around her bicep and starts looking for a vein. Kennedy sighs, knowing that with her awful veins he'll-

"Have to go with one on your forearm, then," the good doctor confirms, gently turning Kennedy's arm. Once he finds the faint blue line, he turns his eyes up to look at Kennedy. She nods once, then looks away as he reaches for the syringe. She hates needles. Well, medical needles anyways. She always gets funny looks when someone who knows of her fear catches a peek at one of her tattoos.

So Kennedy concentrates on trying to read all of the labels on the chemical bottles in the cabinet above Sherlock's head, flinching on hydrochloric acid when she feels a pinch, then the slight burn. She gets through two shelves before John pulls the needle back out and quickly covers the already pooling hole in Kennedy's arm with a cotton swab. He puts a bandage on over it and smiles when Kennedy catches his eye.

"I'll just go give this to Sherlock and then we can go down to the cafeteria," he says, and Kennedy nods. The chemical smells are starting to make her nauseous. She stands as John hands Sherlock the vial and Kennedy can hear that they're having a whispered argument. John tries to cover it up as he walks to the door and holds it open for Kennedy. They're on the lift when Kennedy works up the nerve to ask.

"He thinks I'm lying, doesn't he?"

John shifts his weight uncomfortably and Kennedy raises an eyebrow. "You can tell me. I expected him to," she says, and John meets her eye.

"Yes, he thinks you're lying. But for Sherlock it's all about facts. Once that test comes back positive, he'll believe you," John insists. Kennedy smiles faintly at him as the lift doors open and John leads her to the cafeteria.

They're half way through their second cup of tea when John's mobile chimes. Kennedy watches him closely as he stares at the screen, then looks back up at her. This is it. The proverbial moment of truth. This could mean one of two things: Either Kennedy's life was about to change forever or nothing was going to change at all. She's not entirely positive which she wants.

She raises her eyebrows at John, urging him on silently. He takes a deep breath, then opens his mouth.

"Congratulations, you're going to be a mommy."


End file.
